King of Infinite Space
by NezumiPi
Summary: Sam and Dean are the sons of madman serial killer John Winchester. Dean pulled himself together, finished school and got a job. As for Sam, well, they say schizophrenia runs in families. Contains nurse!Cas and burnout!Gabriel. Destiel, but not central to the plot.
1. Chapter 1

**Prologue**

When Victor Henriksen's FBI unit finally caught up with John Winchester, they weren't exactly stunned he took the coward's way out – or the madman's, from a certain perspective. Winchester was implicated in well over two dozen distinct felonies, starting with grave desecrations and working all the way up to a trio of bizarre, ritualistic murders. And that was just the crimes they could pin on him. Once they caught him, he was never going to breathe free air again, whether he was rotting in a Supermax or stuck in a secure loony bin. They surrounded his ramshackle cabin and shouted through bullhorns that he should give himself up, but they didn't much care whether he did or not. A trial would be nice, but stopping this guy would be a job well done, no matter how it went down.

Their criminal profiler had assured them that Winchester had some capacity for rational thought, but his behavior was erratic and the notes they scrounged from his abandoned lairs were frankly delusional. All in all, this was a guy who was going down, one way or another, who didn't exactly have all his marbles to begin with. So, yeah, when John Winchester put a pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger, Henriksen felt a lot of different things, but shock wasn't one of them.

After the gunshot, it was perfectly quiet as the agents slowly approached the cabin. Henriksen put his hand on the door handle and took a deep breath. Gory scenes were a part of the job; if he prepared himself, the mess inside wouldn't throw him for a loop. He tested the door, knocked, and waited, following procedure to the letter, before he pulled it open and looked inside the decaying room, his eyes ready for the bits of skull and face he would find splattered around.

He wasn't surprised by the blood splatter. He wasn't surprised by the pages of rambling theories tacked to the walls. He wasn't surprised by the stockpile of weapons. But Henriksen was standing in the doorway, mouth hanging open in shock. He hadn't expected to see two children, filthy and silent, crouching on the floor in a ring of salt and staring up at him.

The boys were placed in foster care, names changed from Winchester to Campbell in hopes they would be able to have some sort of normal life. Everyone watched and waited, wondering how badly their minds had been damaged by their father's delusions. They clung to each other. They hoarded food. They were paranoid, especially the older boy – Dean – who was clearly his younger brother's self-appointed protector.

Dean had a hard time assimilating to school and the regular community. He got into fights and he mouthed off to his teachers. He drank, he smoked pot, and he had a panicked pregnancy scare with his girlfriend when he was sixteen. But he pulled it together. He graduated from high school with a vo-tech diploma, got a job as a mechanic, and adopted his younger brother. It turned out that responsibility was good for Dean. Once he and his brother moved into their own little apartment, Dean paid the bills, cooked, cleaned, and basically demonstrated that he was a competent adult.

The younger boy, Sammy, had always seemed more resilient than Dean. He made friends and did well in school. If he had a tendency to brood, it only made teachers dote on him. He wasn't popular, but he wasn't rejected either, and he made first string in J.V. soccer. He had aspirations of becoming a lawyer and his SATs showed he was up to the task. Everybody was looking forward to Sammy's graduation, to their little success story all grown up and off to college. But in Sammy's senior year, things began to…well, they say schizophrenia runs in families.

* * *

**Chapter One**

Dean stumbled into the kitchen, still half-awake post-shower. Sam was reading the newspaper, scissors in hand to cut out "important" articles. Dean snatched the sports section away before Sam could start snipping at it.

"Did you take your meds?"

Sam didn't look up from the paper. "I'm not five, Dean. I can manage my own medication."

Dean sighed. "You didn't answer me."

"I'll take them after breakfast. If I take the propranolol on an empty stomach, I get nauseous."

"Then eat a piece of toast now. I've got to get going. They need me at the garage early today."

Sam started cutting out an advertisement for vinyl siding. "I'm not hungry yet."

Dean rolled his eyes. Why did they have to go through this every fucking morning? "Sam, you gotta take your meds."

"I will. Later."

"No, now. Before I go. I have to see you take them."

Sam glared.

"Come on, Sammy. When you got out last time, you promised the docs you would let me keep track of your meds. You promised."

Sam said nothing. He managed to keep glaring while opening his mouth and sticking out his tongue.

"Thank you," said Dean. He opened up the morning slot on the pillminder and handed it to his brother along with a glass of water. After Sam swallowed, Dean said, "Tongue."

Sam obediently raised his tongue and moved it to the left and right, eyes narrowed all the while. He obviously hated this little ritual, obviously found it humiliating, but Dean was confident the alternative was worse.

"All right," said Dean, "done with that. You don't have anything on your schedule today, so just relax, okay? I'll be back at the normal time." He sniffed the air. "Maybe try to take a shower, huh?"

* * *

_Five years ago_

"_Dean," said Alice, the owner's wife, "phone for you. It's your brother's school."_

_Dean wiped off as much grease as he could before taking the receiver._

"_Mr. Campbell?" said the voice from the other end. Dean recognized it as the vice-principal. "There's been…an incident. Your brother is on his way to the hospital right now."_

_Dean felt his blood run cold. "An 'incident'? What happened? Is he hurt?"_

"_He's not hurt. It was a behavioral incident."_

"_Behavioral? Sammy doesn't get in trouble."_

"_He's not in trouble. He's sick. I can't tell you exactly what the problem is – that's for the doctors – but I can tell you that he's been acting oddly at school, turning in assignments that make no sense, carrying half a dozen rosaries everywhere, talking to himself. Today he took a bucket of road salt from one of the doors and hid in the space under the stairwell. He was screaming and throwing salt at anyone who got close."_

"_He's not crazy," said Dean. "He's not. He's just, you know, the stress of senior year. He's got all his college applications and stuff." They had escaped their father's curse. Sam was almost to the finish line. He wasn't going to trip up now._

"_Whatever it is," said the vice-principal, unconvinced, "you probably want to meet them at the hospital."_

_It wasn't until Dean was waiting in line for his stupid visitor's pass that he wondered how on earth they were going to pay for all this._

* * *

By the time Dean got home, Sam still hadn't showered, but he had printed out at least a hundred pages of internet news articles that had very little to do with one another. The articles were mostly spread across the floor, though some were grouped into piles with the previous days' "research." Dean grimaced. On the one hand, toner was expensive. Maybe he should start taking the printer cable with him to work again. On the other hand, at least this crap kept Sam out of trouble. The real solution would be to get Sam out into the community because the longer he spent alone, the weirder he got, but Sam didn't really want to socialize and the community didn't really want to welcome a crazy person into their ranks.

Case in point:

"Steve is planning on ordering the match on pay-per-view tomorrow night," said Dean. "A bunch of guys from the garage are going over there to watch it. We could go."

Sam shook his head. "I don't want to. Too many people." He glanced to the left before adding, "You go."

"Steve said you were welcome to come."

"No, he didn't."

Dean shoveled another forkful of pasta into his mouth. Sam was right, basically. Steve hadn't even invited Sam initially, and when Dean had asked, the guy had hesitated for a long while before finally extending a half-hearted invitation. The guys at the garage tried to be nice to Sam for Dean's sake, but they couldn't help being wary and awkward.

"You know what?" asked Dean. "I'm not into boxing anymore anyways. Why don't we have Cas over and rent a movie?"

"You're a grown-up," said Sam. "Do whatever you want." He turned his head to the left and winced, before rubbing his ear.

Dean furrowed his brow. "You hearing something?"

Sam put on a serene, cryptic smile. "Everything I hear is real."

* * *

_Five years ago_

_**Chief complaint: **__"I have to stop the witnesses. I have to stop the apocalypse."_

_**History of the present illness: **__Patient is a 18YO WM brought to the ER from school via ambulance. School report approx. 3 month prodrome of decreased academic and social function, poor hygiene, and odd behavior. When psychotic break was florid, pt expressed belief that hostile ghosts were coming for him and believed salt would act as defense. When evaluated in psychiatric ER unit, pt expressed belief that the ghosts were "witnesses" to his bad behaviors and were somehow related to the apocalypse._

_**Personal history: **__Abuse in family of origin, lived in foster care from ages 7 – 15. Denies hx of alcohol or drug abuse. Prior to prodrome, excellent school performance, normal psychosocial function. Lives with brother. Parents deceased._

_**Family history:**__ Undiagnosed psychotic illness in pt's father._

_**Mental Status Exam:**__ Hygiene is poor. Patient is malodorous. Gait is normal. Patient is pacing. Posture is hunched. Alert and oriented x3. Speech is fluent and free of paraphasia. Mild increase in rate and pressure. Thought is disorganized. Perseveration on topics of ghosts and the apocalypse. Affect is fearful. Mood is, "How do you think I am? I have to stop the goddamn apocalypse!" With regard to symptoms of major depression, the patient endorses insomnia, delusional negative self-cognitions, and anhedonia. Suicidal ideation is weakly endorsed, with no current plan. Homicidal ideation is present only for "ghosts". With regard to anxiety, the patient is hypervigilant. With regard to psychotic symptoms, the patient endorses both visual and auditory hallucinations. He is paranoid. He has delusions that he plays a significant role in some sort of religious ghost battle. Insight is absent. Judgment is poor._

_**Diagnosis:**_

_Psychotic Disorder NOS_

_R/O Schizophrenia, Paranoid Type_

_R/O Schizoaffective Disorder_

_R/O Bipolar I Disorder with Psychotic Features, most recent episode Mixed_

_Lawrence Ebling, PhD_

_Dean finished reading the report and set it down on the table in front of him. He didn't say anything._

_The doctor tented his fingers. "This can be a lot to take in," he said._

"_It's got to be one of those things?" Dean pointed to the diagnosis list. "It couldn't be something else? Like, I don't know, drugs?"_

"_We ran a tox screen," said Dr. Ebling. "It was negative."_

"_There aren't…there aren't cures for any of those things, are there?"_

"_No, there aren't. But there are treatments. Good ones, much better than what you may have seen in movies."_

"_He's not crazy," said Dean. "He's a good kid."_

"_I don't know about crazy, but your brother's episode is fairly classic for paranoid schizophrenia. But I'm going to do the both of you a favor and diagnose him with an adjustment disorder and you're going to go out and get him health insurance."_

_Dean looked confused. Health insurance he bought now wouldn't cover the ambulance or the hospital stay._

_Ebling had apparently led family members through this before. "He needs health insurance because this will happen again."_

* * *

Sam was sitting on their ratty sofa, staring to the left, silent and still.

"Sammy," said Dean. When Sam didn't respond, Dean repeated himself in a stern tone. "Sammy! Hey!" Dean snapped his fingers. "Come on."

Sam closed his eyes and shook his head before answering. "What?"

"The drawer where I keep my gun. Somebody opened it." Dean had been advised more than once to get rid of the gun, but he just hadn't been able to bring himself to do it. Yes, he was supposed to be the sane brother, but he had be raised paranoid and pardon him if he couldn't quite shake it.

Sam said nothing.

"What were you messing around with my gun for?"

"You made me get rid of mine." Sam sounded a little bitter.

"Yeah," Dean snorted, "for a reason."

"I wasn't going to do anything, Dean. He just wanted to look at it."

"_Who_ wanted to look at it?" asked Dean. After five years, he was used to the verbal contortions required to have a conversation with Sam.

Sam looked up at his brother, face more vulnerable than his enormous frame should have allowed. He pursed his lips for a moment before answering: "Lucifer."

* * *

I wrote the mental status exam fairly close to what you would actually see in a hospital. Here are some terms people might not know:

Pt – patient

Prodrome – the time immediately before an individual has a first psychotic break, usually characterized by worsening social, occupational, and personal function.

Paraphasia – word errors in speech, such as 'took' for 'look' or 'towel' for 'rag'.

Anhedonia – an inability to experience pleasure.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Four years ago**_

"_Mr. Campbell," Dr. Ebling extended his hand in greeting, "this is our social worker, Elsie Cantata. We appreciate you coming in for this meeting."_

"_Yeah," Dean took his seat, "so what's the problem?"_

"_This is your brother's third hospital presentation this year, and his second admission," began Ebling. "His intake bloodwork showed very low levels of his medication. And the pharmacy reported that he's only refilled the prescription once – he should have refilled it six times by now."_

_The social worker broke in. "Is the expense of the medications a problem? Because we do have some options to reduce the cost."_

"_I don't know. Sam and I share a debit card. He's supposed to go get the pills. Which apparently he didn't do." Dean looked to the side. "Goddammit, Sammy."_

"_Mr. Campbell," said Ebling, "I wanted to meet with you today because I'm not sure you understand the severity of your brother's illness. For example, I need for you to realize that Sam is not capable of managing his own medication at this time."_

"_What?! No, Sam's not some kind of…I don't know, but he's a smart guy. He was going to go to Stanford, become a lawyer. He got a 1530 on his SATs. He's got some problems, but once this all gets fixed up, he'll be back on track."_

"_Dean," said Elsie Cantata, apparently of the belief that she could forge a deeper emotional connection by avoiding formality, "schizophrenia doesn't get 'fixed up', certainly not without consistent treatment." She paused before affecting what was probably supposed to be a gentle voice. "I understand from Sam's history that your father suffered from mental illness before his suicide. Perhaps you're resistant to the idea that Sam is mentally ill, because you're worried that Sam will end up like your father."_

_Dean stood. "Sam is nothing like our dad. You want me to watch him take his meds, fine. But you never suggest that bullshit again."_

"_Of course," said the social worker, "I never meant to suggest that-"_

_Ebling mercifully interrupted. "Moving on, your brother's intake papers show that he's not receiving Social Security disability. It would help your financial situation, and it makes him eligible for a number of programs."_

"_What did I just tell you about Stanford? He's a genius. Disability payments are for people who fake back injuries."_

"_Has your brother held a job since his initial psychotic break?" asked Ebling._

"_No, but that doesn't mean anything. The economy sucks. He's gotten a few interviews, he'll get something eventually." The interviews had all fallen flat, but Dean didn't mention that._

"_Mr. Campbell," said Ebling, "let's not try to predict the future. I just want you to talk to your brother and decide if you can imagine him working today."_

_Dean could see the logic in it, but every little concession to sickness made Stanford seem less and less likely, made any chance of a good future for Sam feel like it was slipping away. He absently nodded through the rest of the meeting, before making his way to the dayroom to see Sam._

"_You don't understand, Dean. You don't understand. There are seals and they keep Lucifer in his place. Caged, like a zoo. Like a zoo. Kazoo. And they're gone. Going, going, gone. I tried, I tried to stop them, but I made it worse. I make it worse sometimes, all times, every time. No more seals in the zoo. Lucifer is free and we're all going to die."_

* * *

"Lucifer?!" Dean was angry and incredulous. "You're hearing _Satan_? And you didn't think you should tell me?"

"Not often," said Sam, "and I didn't want you to worry."

"You remember what happened last time you heard that voi- him?" Dean reminded himself that there was no point in arguing with Sam's delusions. It just got them both mad and never convinced anyone.

"Dean, it's not going to be like that. And I'm taking my meds this time." Sam grimaced slightly. "You _know_ I am."

"Yeah, well, pardon me if I don't share your optimism. This can't end the way it did last time, you understand me? Not a freaking option."

"I have it under control, Dean. You don't have to freak out."

Dean rolled his eyes and barely bit back a snide retort. He tried to take a deep breath or two like all the when-a-loved-one-is-mentally-ill books recommended. "You're coming with me to the garage today. I don't want you sitting here by yourself in the dark all day." If there was one constant over the past years, it was that the more time Sam spent alone, the worse he got.

"You can't boss me around."

The worst part was that it was true. Dean was Sam's 'caretaker' in psych reports and ER paperwork, but he didn't have any real authority. "You've got a messed up brain, Sammy. And right now, it's making you think that sitting here and talking to your voices is a good idea, but I'm telling you that it's not. And I'm asking you to trust that I want what's best for you."

"I'm not a little kid. I don't need you to make every little decision in my life!"

"You wouldn't _be_ alive if it weren't for me!"

The worst part was that it was true.

_**(One Year Ago**_

"_NO!" Sam screamed and bucked and resisted the police officers who were pulling him away from the bridge. "I have to stop him! I'm the only one who can! I can put him back in the cage!" He turned to see his brother standing in the road. "Dean! How could you do this to me!? I thought you trusted me! I thought we were brothers!")_

Sam looked away from his brother, abashed. "I'm not thinking of…anything like that. He's not talking about that either."

Dean nodded, somewhat appeased. "Then why the gun, Sammy?"

Sam shook his head and shrugged. "I don't know. I just know it was important." He glanced at their wall calendar. "Gabe is supposed to come over today. How about I go to the library in the morning and hang out with Gabe in the afternoon?"

Dean was mollified by the reasonableness of the suggestion more than anything – Sam at his worst was unable to think of anything that logical. He thought it over. He could take the gun with him to work, or toss the ammo in a locker. (Or, a traitorous part of him thought, he could get rid of it entirely – there was no such thing as monsters and he had no need to-. Dean mentally told his disarmament lobe to shut its pie hole.)

"Okay," Dean said finally. "Keep your phone nearby and keep it on. And if you think that _maybe_ you should call me, you should _definitely_ call me."

* * *

Gabriel Laufeyson was Sam's Compeer-assigned buddy and the closest thing to a friend Sam had. The kid signed on for the gig in his high school junior year, explaining that his parents were demanding he pick an extra-curricular activity and he didn't _do_ teams. According to the brochures, Compeer buddies were supposed to come over for a game of checkers, or chat over a cup of coffee. Gabriel's idea of appropriate Compeer activities ranged from hand-filling ten thousand entry forms to swindle a radio call-in show to picking out all the paint samples at Home Depot that had stripper names (_Dusky Burst_ won that game, with _Cherry Treat_ a close second). As far as Dean could tell, Gabe wasn't crazy - he was just weird for the sake of weird.

Early on, Gabriel had a few ideas went very wrong. He gave Sam pot, he took Sam to the mosh pit at a Dropkick Murphies concert, and he convinced Sam to videotape him while he poured grasshoppers into a police car that had previously offended him. On the other hand, he came by more often and for much longer than the he was scheduled for. He even visited Sam in the hospital when things went south. And he stood up for Sam. Admittedly, he mostly stood up for Sam against Dean – "You think being the older brother puts you in charge of everything! Quit being such a dickwad and get your head out of your ass!" – but Dean couldn't justify calling the whole thing off. It wasn't like Sam had an overabundance of allies in life.

Dean got home from work to find Sam napping, or possibly sitting still and staring at the wall, on the couch. He had shaved, he was wearing clean clothes, and judging by the smell he had obviously showered. Gabriel was slouching on the couch as well, surrounded by a pile of dollar bills that had been origami-ed into weird hexagon-like shapes that he was weaving into a massive block.

Dean estimated that between the existing blob and the pile of individual ones, there were at least four hundred bills. "How long have you been here?"

"I dunno." Gabriel shrugged. "Since noon or so?"

"Don't you have school?" asked Dean.

"Nah, got expelled a couple of months ago."

"Showed up stoned one too many times?"

"Nothing that boring," said Gabriel. "There was this librarian, Kirch-"

"Yeah, he was around in my day too. He was a total douche."

"I thought so too." Gabriel smirked. "He put in this censor software that took out everything with the word 'gay', even educational stuff or Marvin Gaye or whatever. So I sneaked into the school over break and set up all the library computer monitors to display stills from gay porn. The images got burned into the screens. Now, whatever you're looking up in the library, you can see the faint outline of a guy taking it up the ass."

"So that explains why you had time for this little arts and crafts fest," said Dean, trying to suppress a grin. He didn't personally like Gabriel, but he had to admit that the kid's pranks were kind of funny sometimes. Kind of. Sometimes. "Should I ask what you're doing with all this cash? Point of interest: I don't want to hear about it if you're dealing."

"It's my rent. My landlord pissed me off."

"Landlord?" asked Dean skeptically. "You mean your dad?"

Gabriel snorted. "You think I still live at home after getting expelled? I got a job at OfficeMax and I'm sharing an apartment with some guys from work. Anyways, the heater is all fucked up and the landlord is dragging his heels on fixing it. So until he does, he's getting paid creatively." Gabriel gestured to the impenetrable ball of cash. "Sam assured me that it's legal."

"Pretty sure," said Sam, the first time he had spoken since Dean got home. "You would probably win the case, at any rate."

"How are you doing, Sammy?" asked Dean.

"You mean, am I hearing Lucifer? No, I'm not."

**And that's not a lie, Sammy, because I'm not really Lucifer. I'm you. This is the world you've made for yourself.**

"See, Mr. Overprotective?" wheedled Gabriel. "It's all good. So don't go cancelling your little date tonight."

Dean made a noise that was halfway between a growl and a sigh before reaching into the fridge for a beer. "It's not a date," he scowled.


	3. Chapter 3

Driving home from the party, Dean sighed. He wasn't sure how he could explain himself any more clearly. "You can't 'Irish up' a diet Sprite, Cas."

"I don't see why not," answered Castiel reasonably. "They were more than willing to Irish up your coffee."

"No, you can't because there's no such thing as an Irish Sprite. Irish coffee, yes. Irish Sprite, no."

"Actually, sprites play a central role in Irish folklore."

Dean squinted. He was fairly certain that at least some of Castiel's non-sequiturs were intentional. "Why were you drinking diet Sprite anyway?"

"Because I enjoy the refreshing taste of Sprite and appreciate the health benefits of reduced caloric intake."

"Well, stop trying to booze-ify your girl sodas."

"Of course not now," replied Castiel calmly. "We're in your car and that would be an open container violation."

Dean chuckled and fiddled with the radio. They settled into a comfortable quiet as the classic rock DJ interrupted the music to remind listeners they were hearing uninterrupted music.

"I," Cas paused, "like the clothing you selected for this evening. It is…pleasant."

Dean snorted. "You really suck at flirting."

"I spent much of my adolescence planning to become a priest. I did not expect that romance would be a skill I would need to cultivate."

"A priest? Seriously? And here I thought you just had Asperger's."

Castiel made a very quiet exhalation that might have been a laugh.

Dean tried to gauge whether he had offended the other man, but gave it up for a lost cause – Cas was as unreadable as ever. "So how did you go from the priesthood to the world's most depressing job?"

Castiel cocked his head to the side. "I don't think of my job as depressing. Death is a part of life."

"Weirdo."

Castiel sniffed in a dignified sort of way. "Answering your original question, it is a little known fact of Catholic doctrine that gay men are excluded from the priesthood. I could have lied, I suppose, but using dishonesty to enter the seminary seemed to be," he paused and made air-quotes, "missing the point."

"That's bullshit, man. What's it matter who you're _not_ having sex with? I mean, I'm glad you're not a priest and all, but, you know…"

Castiel looked as though he were about to vigorously agree, but he said nothing. They lapsed into silence for a few moments before Castiel asked, "How is your brother doing?"

"He's," Dean sighed, "he's…you remember how he was when we first met? I think he's headed there again."

* * *

_**Six Months Ago**_

_The psychiatric emergency waiting room was unbearable. The whole PE ward was locked, so if you wanted to go get a coffee or just get away from the crazy for a few minutes, you had to track down a nurse with a key and try to interrupt without pissing her off too badly. The other patients were a nightmare. Dean couldn't help watching every freak who cried like a toddler or pissed on the floor and wonder if that's where Sam was headed. And of course, the worst part was that it was a waiting room, at precisely the time that Dean did not want to be waiting. He wanted to take action, not sit around and let a bunch of asshole doctors decide his brother's fate. _

_For a while, there was only one other person in the room: a man a few years older than Dean, dressed in an ill-fitting suit and trench coat. The guy was kind of hot, in a uptight tax accountant sort of way. The man had sat very still, seemingly unbothered by the wait. Then Dean got called over by some staff lady to update insurance paperwork and when he got back, there was no one else in the waiting room._

_Dean heard the tell-tale double click of someone being buzzed in to the locked area and the man reappeared, carrying two coffees. He handed one to Dean._

"_Here," said the man, "you look like you could use it."_

"_Thanks," said Dean. He didn't really feel like making small talk, but he had been in this fucking waiting room for four fucking hours and any distraction was better than none. He extended his hand. "Dean," he said. "Dean Campbell."_

"_Castiel Novak," answered the man. He had a surprisingly strong handshake._

"_Novak?" asked Dean. "As in __the__ Novaks? As in buy-and-sell this whole city Novaks?" There was a dynasty of unbelievably wealthy real estate moguls who owned or managed most of the property in the city, toyed with local elections, and smiled in a sickeningly clean way on billboards and bus ads. Like most residents, Dean faintly hated them._

"_I'm related, but not part of the family business. 'The' Novak brothers, Michael and Raphael, are my cousins." Castiel vocally emphasized the word 'the' as Dean had, with the addition of inelegant air quotes._

"_So what do you do?"_

"_I'm a hospice nurse," said Castiel. When comprehension failed to dawn on Dean's face, he added, "I provide medical care, mostly palliative and comfort care, to the dying."_

"_Fuck, that sounds awful. No wonder you're in the nuthouse."_

"_I'm not here for my own mental health; I'm here for work. A family member of one of my clients…" He paused, clearly considering the confidentiality rules that might apply to the situation, "required transport here. I'm waiting until they finish admitting her."_

"_Or don't admit her," Dean pointed out. "They don't always take people, especially if the crazy changes her mind and says she doesn't want to stay. They've set Sam free without admitting him a few times, because he says he wants to leave and they say they can't make him stick around. As if what he says when he's like this actually counts for anything. I mean, I'm all for freedom, but what the hell kind of freedom is it when the reason you don't want to stay in the hospital is that a demon is trying to trick you into drinking her blood." That had been a terrible few months, with Sam refusing to drink or touch liquids. Sam stank and Dean had spent a small fortune on watermelons and popsicles trying to keep him from succumbing to dehydration._

"_Is Sam your…"_

"_Brother. He's a…uh…frequent flyer here." Dean slumped in his seat, exhausted. "God, I hope they admit him."_

_Castiel nodded, his face neutral. He didn't seem freaked out by Dean's little rant. Most people who knew Dean well enough to know that he lived with his brother knew that Sam was disabled, and about half of those people knew that it was a mental illness. But Dean had stopped sharing the details with anyone. They stared, they stepped back, they kept their girlfriends away. They looked horrified and scared and grossed out and Dean just got sick of it._

"_Maybe I just want a break." Dean was babbling and he couldn't seem to stop. "Maybe I just want one night's sleep where I don't have to worry that he'll wander off into the fucking street."_

"_I believe that is standard among those caring for someone with a severe illness."_

_Dean wasn't sure what reaction he had expected, but TheraSpock wasn't it. Not bad, just unexpected, though in Dean's life, unexpected and shitty usually went hand-in-hand. He took a long drink of his coffee because he couldn't think of anything to say. He was saved by a physician who beckoned Mr. Novak across the room to discuss something._

_Maybe Dean needed to get out more, but he was enjoying the view of Castiel Novak from behind. He tore a piece of paper off of the newspaper and scribbled his phone number, along with his name and 'what the hell? worth a shot. bet you could use a break too'. _

* * *

_blood blood blood bone and blood blood blood_

Sam wakes up to the one voice that never leaves him.

_look at that in the newspaper that blood blood blood that woman that bitch dead with maggots that eat her corpse blood_

Out loud, Sam calls the voice 'Jack' because he doesn't want Dean to worry, but that's not the voice's real name. His name is Winchester and he never stops talking to Sam.

_spot on the wall dripping wall that woman write type click click click drip drip drip_

When he's on his meds, Sam can ignore Winchester, understands that the things Winchester says may or may not be true. Mostly. Winchester makes sense, though. And he never shuts up. The docs tried to get the dose high enough to make Winchester go away, but the only time they succeeded, Sam was literally drooling, barely awake, his tongue wouldn't stop sliding in and out of his mouth, and his eyes fluttered uncontrollably.

_look at that girl think how she would look without skin think how she would look with a knife in her cunt_

So Sam just has to live with Winchester.

**Hi Sam. Long time, no spooning.**

Lucifer makes more sense than Winchester, and Lucifer sometimes goes away. Sometimes he doesn't even pester Sam, just tells him about other people's sins. Other times he reads to Sam or recites the entirety of _Our Town_, that stupid play Sam was in as a high schooler. He likes to confuse Sam about what's real and what's not.

Lucifer never talks to Winchester and Winchester never talks to Lucifer. They both just talk to Sam, sometimes at the same time. When they do that, Sam can't pay attention to anything else. He tried to explain it to Dean one time. He said it was like that stupid thing they did when they were kids where if one of them was counting something, the other would yell out random numbers and it was pretty much impossible to keep counting correctly.

**Saaaaa-aaaaam. Sam! Quit ignoring me! This is important. You have to get back to the real world. You might be enjoying your little vacation in happy land with your brother and your pal, but it comes at a price.**

_blood blood blood bone and blood blood blood_

Sam tries to tune them both out and picks up a controller to play Lego Star Wars with Gabriel.

* * *

"I would invite you back to my apartment," said Castiel, "but I imagine you would prefer to get home to your brother."

Dean rubbed his forehead. If anyone else were talking about inviting him back to their apartment, he would have been totally sure that sex was on the table, but Cas was freaking Captain Oblivious, which was how they had managed to hang out for months without ever being entirely clear whether they were pals or boyfriends, an issue which Dean would normally be quick to clarify, but he was weirdly hesitant to screw things up with Cas.

"You're welcome to come back to my place," said Dean, wishing he didn't feel and/or sound like a goddamn thirteen-year-old.

When Dean leaned forward put his key in the lock, he could hear the distinctive background music of Katamari Damacy. It hadn't occurred to him that Gabriel might still be at the apartment – Gabriel, who would waste no time embarrassing Cas and killing the mood. He glanced back at Castiel, who was standing perfectly still, facing the wall. "Remember that kid I told you about who volunteers with Sam?"

"Yes."

"Well, he's still here. Just ignore him and don't let him get to you."

Dean opened the door with one hand, crossing his fingers with the other, hoping that maybe, just maybe, the universe would cut him some slack and he would get laid tonight.

Castiel walked into the small apartment, stepping carefully over the loose floorboard, to see Dean's younger brother playing a video game, sitting on the sofa next to-

"Gabriel?" asked Castiel, in a vaguely shocked tone. Why wouldn't Dean have mentioned…

"Oh, hey! I uh…" The kid immediately got up from the couch and started gathering his things.

"Wait, wait," said Dean. "You guys know each other?"

"Nope," said Gabriel in an innocent tone, while Castiel simultaneously said, "Of course."

"We're cousins," said Castiel, puzzled. "I would have thought the matching last names would have piqued your curiosity."

Dean pointed to Gabriel. "But his last name is Laufe-"

Gabe interrupted. "You know, Dean, sometimes people use fake names. Sometimes people don't want to carry on the family legacy. Maybe you know a little about-"

"You shut your goddamn mouth!" hissed Dean.

"Everybody be quiet!" yelled Sam. "Please," he said in a softer voice, "I just want it to be quiet."


End file.
